


sideways

by misslovesastory



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 19:10:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20747294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslovesastory/pseuds/misslovesastory
Summary: they've come at this sideways; after the end of everything, Crowley struggles with new beginnings





	sideways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

> A brief practice piece that became a homage to the writing of drawlight - the music of their wonderful words has been buried in my heart, drawing out a lyrical piece that is very different from my normal style. Thank you for your words; their beauty has moved me to let go of myself for a moment and dance to your rhythm.

_We’ve come at this sideways. Like I sidled up to you on a wall, first hint of first rain’s promise in the air._

_And the reflexive shelter of your wing as you stood, dampening and uncaring, offering shelter while asking nothing — a hint at something more, maybe._

Fast forward millennia, and it’s too fast. _More_ moves slower than the glaciers, heart freezing and ice receding, warmth and friendship, pushback and boundaries. Too fast, _too fast_, and the skidding halt and following silence is enough to cause whiplash.

Another jump and sidestep around the end of the world and their world still ended. No way to find their way back to before — the divide is too great and they’re _on their own side_.

Crowley can’t bring himself to investigate that dark corner in his chest, crushed in a recess of what he would call his heart if he wasn’t a demon. Something in that corner whispers to him that ‘their own side’ means, maybe, necessarily, ‘together’. It follows, logical but not certain.

And so he wakes to an empty bed, days after the Ritz, after hours spent together in companionable silences with no words to express this feeling of something new and terrifying that he knows they share. The bed is empty beside him, and maybe empty entirely — he doesn’t feel totally real, unmoored and cast out a second time. Still Falling. Falling _again_. He hasn’t hit ground yet. Bracing for impact, hoping to be caught.

Restless.

Falling.

A different Fall than before; maybe the same Fall he has been enduring for 6000 years, since a worried confession on a wall:

“I gave it away.”

Crowley knows now that he would have given anything to soothe that worry. All he had was his heart, offered to replace the angel’s loss. Not a sword, not a weapon, not divine, but still burning; burning bright like the stars he once revelled in. An offering, worship, bright and sharp and never enough, completely outshone by the warmth of one soft angel.

He never regretted his choice.

He leaves the bed and finds himself at the bookshop, to bask in that warmth as befits his snake-soul, but he can’t settle in what has become his space on the couch. That normal is slipping away. Restless still, unable to find a comfortable way to relax and unknot the worry in his spine. Normally, the bookshop is a calming space.

But he’s endured a fire and the end of the world and a soft hand on his on a long bus journey and nothing will be normal ever again.

So naturally the normally oblivious angel, bless him, notices.

He desperately wishes he hadn’t gotten into the habit of not wearing his sunglasses in the shop — that the angel hadn’t made his space so comfortable for this old demon — because as the angel stops his fussing and comes to perch on the old sofa next to him, he wishes for somewhere to hide. He’s too raw, his edges exposed, the soft core of him unarmored, like he’s forgotten how to bind his wounds.

“Crowley,” the angel says, softly, like he’s trying to calm a skittish animal, and covers Crowley’s trembling, bony hand with his own.

Something in Crowley’s chest twitches, tries to escape his skin.

_Yes, angel, yes, ask me anything. You have had my heart for as long as it has been mine to give. Ask me for my life, you have it already, I have wrapped it in these shreds of our lives, in burnt, damp book cinders, fragments of pages and ash. It is yours, whether or not you want it. Please say you want it._

He manages to control the urge to flee to a soft shudder, anchors himself to the soft hand. Squeezes it like a drowning man holds a rope, but softly, so gently. Nothing must ever harm this bit of salvation, even if it means he goes under.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tries again, soft but firm, like he has a direction, like he has made up his mind about something. “I know this is difficult. We’re completely alone now.”

_Never alone_, thinks Crowley. _You’ll always have me. I will always haunt you, protect you, watch over you. Your voice should never be small and uncertain like that._

He manages a nod.

“But our side is… _our _side. There are two of us here.”

_Together._

“Whatever you need, I am here for you, Crowley. I will look after you, as you have looked after me for centuries. If there is something the matter — please tell me. I would like to be able to help.”

“I love you.”

It bursts out of him before he can stop it and _oh, Someone_, it’s _too fast_ and he’s curling in on himself, paralyzed, waiting for the crushing blow. Another Before ended.

There is only After now.

There is always only After, with them. Lives turned on moments - oysters, Hamlet, holy water.

Too fast.

A demolition of the new normal; a collapse that takes an eternity.

He braces for the crash.

The other gentle hand turns Crowley’s face back toward the angel and terrified gold eyes meet shining, shifting celestial blue.

“And I love you,” the angel says and the world breaks around Crowley.

Sideways.

He crumples into Aziraphale’s shoulder, sobs surprising him as they wrack his body, fists clutching a dusty century-old coat as his - _his_ \- angel wraps him in the warmest embrace he’s ever known and holds him, stroking his hair until he quiets.

When he has gathered enough pieces of himself to lift his head, he sees tear tracks on the soft face opposite his.

His angel should never cry.

Finally, without thinking, with his blessed anxious brain finally out of the way, he moves with his instinct to take the hurt away. Aziraphale meets him in the middle, a gentle press of lips that shakes the earth.

When they break, the world is new, and Crowley’s Fall is over. He has landed. Miraculously, he is truly home.

“Our side. Together,” he manages.

“With you, always,” breathes the angel, and they cling to one another as a new reality knits around them.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! this is a different style for me; I'd love to hear what you think of it!


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